


Honey Is For Bees

by orphan_account



Category: Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance
Genre: -But not really, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Bittersweet, High school au but not really, M/M, Poorly written, i wrote this a while back, sorry - Freeform, wtf gay little monkey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:29:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25140916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: imma be real w you its just me projecting onto both of the main characters but yknow its cute cuz its petekey or whatever
Relationships: Mikey Way/Pete Wentz
Comments: 1
Kudos: 8





	Honey Is For Bees

Michael Way's mind grew louder, as he grew quieter. His mind grew loud with thoughts of wanting to die. He tried to keep those dangerous thoughts away from his mouth, and actions. 

It was small things that began to happen because of these thoughts. The first being, he stopped smiling. His presence became sad, and almost lifeless. The only person who took notice was his brother. His brother, at that moment, seemed to be the only person who cared. 

He asked him, "Hey Michael? Is everything alright with you? You seem kinda sad lately."

Michael wasn't going to tell his brother what was going on in his head. If Gerard knew the thoughts of death Michael thought on a daily basis, he would be put in a mental institution. "Yeah Gerard I'm fine," he told him, faking a smile the best he could. "I've been really tired lately, with finals and all. Just, stressful."

Gerard believed him, but still watched his brother carefully. What he noticed is that, Michael no longer took care of himself. And no longer found interest in anything but his copy of The Complete Tales of Winnie the Pooh. His hair was never combed, his clothes were never cleaned, and he never smelled clean. His room began to dirty, and he soon was laying in his own filth. Gerard then knew, his brother was depressed. He told his parents, who were completely unaware of their son's current situation. They saw his room, and how it was covered in garbage, and how their son laid in his own piss, reading what many had labeled as a children's book. 

He needed help. His parents were hesitant to get him help, though. In their eyes, he was surely just stressed, or going through a phase of emotions. Then Gerard found the pencil sharpener, with a missing razor blade in a bathroom drawer.

He was angry, and upset. He ran to his brother with the pencil sharpener in hand, and burst the door open. "Why the hell is blade on this missing!" he yelled upset and overwhelmed.

Michael looked at the object, terrified. His biggest secret was out, and now his family, or the world would never see him the same way again. "Show me your arms," Gerard said in a much quieter tone.

Michael reluctantly agreed, and pulled his sleeves up, revealing the battle scars of his own mind's civil war. 

He and is brother cried in each other's arms, and that night was sad. 

After that night, Gerard told his parents, and his parents finally agreed to taking Michael to therapy. He tried to find comfort in the fact that his parents finally cared enough to sign him up for therapy, but once again, the only thing he could find comfort in was a book, most thought he was insane for reading without a child around. 

He went to therapy, and met the woman who was going to help him, at least that's what he hoped. Once a week, they'd meet. They discussed everything and anything, because it was the only place Michael felt comfortable talking. 

His therapist was a smart woman. She was very good at giving Michael hope for the future. She complimented his writing, and told him he was talented, which he was. Michael had a very poetic mind, and his writing was incredible, especially for a seventeen year old. 

What was happening, was Michael would get better, he'd start taking care of himself, smiling, and even doing his homework (which was something he rarely did). Then, he would have an off day, and lose hope of finding joy. He'd fall back into every bad habit, and he'd go back to being very sad. 

He was chasing something he felt like wasn't real. He felt like Pooh, running around in circles, tracing footprints back to the creature he was hunting (called a woozle) when in reality, he's just tracking his own footprints, that he'd left moments ago when running in circles. He felt as if joy was an imaginary creature, and he was chasing it for no reason at all. He was chasing a woozle. His joy didn't seem to actually exists.

His therapist tried, and eventually suggested he see someone for medication management. She said, somethings need a little help. So they tried medication.

It did help Michael a bit. It certainly calmed his anxiety, and helped his numb feelings fade, but he still lacked joy. He was still, to put it simply, chasing a woozle. And, if you've ever hunted a creature that didn't exist, perhaps tried to catch fairies, or Santa Claus coming down the chimney, you know how difficult it is to actually meet your goal. But he tried his hardest to get better. 

His therapist, said during one session. "You don't have any friends, other than Gerard. Am I correct?"

Michael sighed. "Yeah, no one really wants to befriend a seventeen year old boy with an obsession over Winnie the Pooh."

Helen (his therapist) giggled at his statement. "Perhaps you should make some friends. I know you enjoy poetry, and there's this coffee shop in Scotia that does poetry readings every Saturday night. Maybe you could give that a try, even share a poem of your own."

Michael laughed. "Right. Because the kinda friends I'd wanna make don't have plans for Saturday night."

"Well, at least you'd have something in common," Helen playfully teased. 

"Ouch Helen," Michael said pretending to be offended. "I thought you were supposed to be nice to me."

"You know I was teasing," Helen said. "But please give it a try. I'm just trying to help, and you know that I always have your best interest in mind."

"Alright. I'll give the loser poetry thing a try." Michael sighed. He couldn't believe he agreed to this.

He went home that night, thinking about sharing a poem. It wouldn't be such a bad idea, as long as he chose one of his poems that was well written. He could do it. Maybe someone would appreciate his art. The coming Saturday, he would share a poem, and hopefully, make a friend.


End file.
